#SpookyShowcase: The Two-Faced Woman by Kayla Joy

Welcome to the 9th annual #SpookyShowcase, a Halloween artist and author showcase. A full schedule of submissions can be found here so you don’t miss a single entry for THESE DEADLY CURSES. Now, on to today’s submission!

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The TWo-faced woman by Kayla Joy

You might say it was love at first sight, when George laid eyes on Henrietta Hindley at the New Year’s Eve party, ringing in the new decade. The masks had been around for a couple of years already and fulfilled their purpose of stopping the Great Influenza, although they did make finding lasting love difficult. But George could not take his gaze off of Henrietta, who blushed from across the room and pretended not to notice him. George frowned at her lack of attention and abandoned whatever girl he had originally attended the party with to “accidentally” bump into Henrietta over at the champagne table.

“Oops,” he mumbled, then smiled at her as she looked up at him with the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Even with the protective mask covering the lower half of her face, he’d never seen a more lovely creature in his life. “Let me buy you a drink as an apology for rudely bumping into you.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing lightly, and her eyes crinkling with a smile. “I don’t drink. I only came over here so you would offer.”

George laughed and rested a hand on her upper arm. “Of course you did. Fine then. No drink, just save me a dance.”

“You came in with a different girl, didn’t you?” Henrietta confronted him. “I saw you over there with her.”

“Who, her? Let’s say I’m a man of refined taste. She doesn’t hold a candle to your beauty.”

Henrietta sort of rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Fine. But one dance is all you get. I won’t be held responsible for the backlash of your date.”

“Deal,” George smiled and took her hand and led her to the dance floor. And one dance led to two, and two led to five, and by the end of the night he had forgotten the name of his date entirely and abandoned her in exchange for Henrietta.

At midnight, as the surrounding couples engaged in kisses and toasts to a prosperous decade ahead of them, Henrietta simply shook his hand.

“That’s all?” George pouted and lowered his mask. “Not even a kiss?”

Henrietta smiled. “Not tonight, my dear.” she said. “I must get home.” Henrietta pulled on her sweater over her dress and started to leave the party, but George grasped her wrist to stop her.

“So soon?” he whined. “Well, when can I see you again?”

Henrietta paused and pursed her lips under her mask. “How about lunchtime tomorrow?”

George stopped and dropped her wrist, and Henrietta felt a pang of embarrassment. “Too soon?”

“Not at all!” George smiled. Henrietta tried to get away again, but George pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek, right on the spot where her mask met her skin. “Till tomorrow.” 

Henrietta blushed, and they both floated home on a cloud of infatuation.

The next day, they met again for lunch, though Henrietta didn’t eat. She said she’d eaten a big lunch beforehand and was happy to just be present with George. George swore he wasn’t one of those men who would be embarrassed to see a woman eat food, but Henrietta insisted she wasn’t hungry. Fine. More for him. After that date went well, they met again to go to a moving picture, and then the next week they went on a romantic boat ride through the park.

George never saw Henrietta without the face mask. When he asked, she explained she was getting over a chest cold and didn’t want to get him sick, or that she was extra susceptible to influenza and was afraid of getting ill. It made sense, but George had never met anyone who adhered to the mask guidelines as rigidly as did Henrietta.

But after their fifth date, George was falling hard for Henrietta. Her personality was just as beautiful as she was. She was smart and kind and funny and everything he wanted. So George asked Henrietta to marry him, and Henrietta, excitedly, wholeheartedly, said yes.

George helped to plan the wedding. He spared no expense to give the woman of his dreams, the wedding of hers. The dress, the flowers, the food, the music- nothing but the best for Henrietta.

“George,” Henrietta mumbled one day while he rifled through papers and expenses. 

“Yes, my dear,” George said, though he hardly looked up.

“What if I can’t make you happy?” she asked. This made him look up.

“What do you mean? Of course, you make me happy. Don’t be stupid.” George looked away again, and Henrietta sighed.

“I’m just worried I’m not the woman you’ve dreamed of.”

George let out an exasperated sigh. “You are more than everything I dreamed of, and nothing could change that. Ever. Understand?”

Henrietta felt relieved and smiled. “Yes,” she whispered.

A week later, Henrietta walked down the aisle in a flowing white gown with lace covering it like spiderwebs., and her face covered not by a mask, but by a veil. At the end of the aisle, George waited in anticipation, bouncing on his heels and hoping she’s as beautiful as his imagination let him believe. The church was filled with his closest friends and family. Henrietta had none to invite, but George promised they would become like her family, too.

Henrietta felt her nerves relax the closer to George she came and felt herself at ease as he took her hand. The pastor led the prayer and invited George’s family and guests to be seated while George and Henrietta faced one another. He squeezed her hand as if to signal, “I’m right here, love,” and she squeezed his right back.

The wedding seemed to drag on forever, but at some point, the pastor said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss your bride,” and George lifted her veil from her face.

His eyes were closed as he leaned in to kiss her, and they sealed their love with a kiss—their very first kiss. But her skin wasn’t soft like he imagined. It was coarse and rough with ridges. He pulled back from the kiss and opened his eyes to look at Henrietta’s face for the first time.

The lower half of her face was covered in burns and scars, deep gashes that never seemed to heal. Her lips were deformed and her nose appeared to have been cut off at the tip. Her chin didn’t have a full arch to it and left her looking like a poorly sculpted clay thing rather than the beautiful girl he agreed to marry. She was a disgusting, hideous creature.

He was so startled that he fell backward, and a collective gasp was heard from his guests. Henrietta’s eyes darted back and forth with embarrassment as she reached for George, her husband. 

“No!” George shrieked, swatting her hand away. “Don’t touch me! Beast! You’re a beast and you’ve lied to me!”

“I haven’t lied!” Henrietta pleaded and reached for him again, but George pulled a knife from his pocket. The guests began throwing things at her. Shoes, hats, anything to separate them. So Henrietta did the one thing she could think of—she fled the scene as fast as she could, covering her face with her hands.

She ran for at least a mile before her heels couldn’t carry her anymore, and she fell to her knees on the side of the road, wailing in anguish, sobbing into her hands. A car pulled over and somebody stepped out, asking, “Are you okay, ma’am?” But the moment they saw her face, they recoiled and got back in their car, driving away and leaving her there.

It was like a wave washing over her again and again in the most vile pain she’d ever experienced, racking her shoulders and ribcage, like a dagger to the heart. It was torture. She made it back to her home and cried and cried for days on end. She didn’t eat; she didn’t sleep, she could hardly speak, and nothing could distract her from her pain.

She locked herself in her bedroom—not really a bedroom, but a dusty attic space they offered her in exchange for some chores and cooking services—of her boarding house, determined to waste away until she died so her ugliness wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. But one morning at breakfast, when she was forced to be out with the rest of the ladies, the den mother grimly presented her with a newspaper clipping.

She didn’t have to read it for her heart to sink into the pit of her stomach. It was a photograph of George wrapped in the arms of another beautiful woman. Beautiful without a mask. Beautiful without even trying. They both smiled, eyes twinkling even in the black and white portrait. A perfect portrayal of a happy, gorgeous couple. 

Engagement announcement, it read. Her name was Martha. She was a schoolteacher, barely 19 years old. Daughter of a pastor, the article said, but she couldn’t read on. Henrietta quietly excused herself from the breakfast table and stumbled up the stairs, maintaining the appearance of calm until she had closed her door behind her. She pressed her back against the wood and blew out a bubbled breath and the tears that accompanied her. It all happened quite slowly at first, her grief. She cried a little bit and dropped to the ground, and as she calmed, it seemed to overtake her again, just as it had when he abandoned her the first time.

She examined herself in the mirror. Blotchy and red and burned and hideous. Why had she been cursed with ugliness? Why her? Henrietta leaned forward and dug her nails into her face, poking and prodding and imagining what she’d look like if she could look like Miss Martha. She dug her nails deeper. She’d be perfect if she was beautiful, like Martha. She’d be loved if she looked like Martha. She drew blood with her fingernails, startling her and bringing her back into reality.

But instead of another painful wave overtaking her, Henrietta felt… peace. A sense of clarity about what George was looking for in a woman. Something Henrietta could never be. He didn’t care about how smart or funny or kind she was as long as it was wrapped up in pretty paper and tied with a bow. He didn’t care about who she was as a person, only that she could stand beside him and be beautiful eye-candy for his friends to look at- but not touch.

To be desirable to George, she had to—to use her own analogy—wrap herself in beautiful paper.

George and Martha’s wedding came up quickly. Invite only, of course. No unexpected visitors were allowed here. Most of their guests just re-used the same clothes they wore to the first wedding. In fact, most of the wedding was just recycled goods from the first one. Henrietta turned up her nose at the flowers she chose because they were her mother’s favorites and any hesitancy she had about what she was doing here was out the window.

Henrietta climbed the stairs to the same room she had gotten ready in just a few short months ago. She dodged the family and friends and thankfully the groom, before sneaking into the bridal suite. Martha’s back was to the door, but her reflection looked back at her, even more beautiful in person than in her engagement picture. Henrietta wanted for Martha to have fangs or claws or somehow be a monster, but her entire face lit up with a joyful smile behind her deep red lipstick.

“Hi!” Martha exclaimed. “Can I help you?” 

Not a hint of dishonesty in her tone. Damn it. Martha was perfect. And Henrietta began to cry again. 

Martha’s face fell, and she jumped from her makeup chair in her wedding gown to console the crying woman in her suite. “What’s wrong? Oh no, what’s wrong, honey?” She hugged Henrietta to her and rubbed her back to console her. “There, there, whatever it is, we can fix it. Okay?”

Henrietta pressed her face into Martha’s hair and smelled her and imagined George. She imagined their life together, Martha doing the dishes while George read the paper. Babies together. And each time she imagined a piece of their future together, she felt the pang of hurt in her chest. Because it should be her George was marrying. It should have been her having babies with George. It should have been her. She opened her eyes, her shoulders trembling and her dress becoming soaked with tears, and in the vanity mirror, Henrietta watched herself raise and plunge the knife into Martha’s back.

Martha dropped to her knees like a prayer for help, her eyes bulging out at Henrietta, and her mouth fell open in a horrified gasp. Her wedding dress went dark red in the back, Henrietta saw in the mirror, but the front of the dress remained white. Henrietta exhaled a breath of relief and smiled up at the ceiling, peacefully.

Martha clutched her legs, gasping for breath, pleading for help, and rather than obliging, Henrietta kicked Martha over onto her back and knelt beside her. She was beautiful even now, as she choked up some blood and silver tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Henrietta reached her thumb up and wiped some of the blood off Martha’s bottom lip.

“I am very sorry, Martha,” Henrietta whispered to her.

In another life, perhaps they could have been friends. But George made his choice, and so Henrietta made hers.

The wedding band started up as a beautiful veiled white figure glided down the aisle. George fiddled with his hands, no doubt anxious after the last time he stood here. As Martha floated towards him, the guests in the back gasped and cover their mouths as they saw the back of her dress. George tried not to think too much about it. He didn’t want to get tripped up. Martha slowed to a stop in front of him and reached her hand out to take his, and he helped her up the steps.

“You look beautiful, my love,” he whispered in her ear when she was close enough. The priest said a few words, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, facing an uncertain future together as man and wife. 

“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest said, and everyone held their breaths in anticipation. George slowly lifted the veil, but Martha planted her lips on him the moment she was able. They embraced and kissed lovingly, the perfect kiss for a perfect couple.

But the crowd’s reaction left a hint of doubt in George. They gasped, then some of them screamed, before George pulled back from the kiss to look at Martha.

Her head was bowed at first, but as she lifted her eyes to look at him, George’s shaking legs threatened to bring him down. The face, the face was Martha’s. But the eyes were Henrietta, looking at him with a playful hope in them. The area around her face was bloody and hanging off, as if it was glued on. Like a facemask. Henrietta was wearing Martha’s face. 

George slipped and fell backwards, screaming madly, and Henrietta remained very calm, all things considered. She knelt beside him and took his hand. He squirmed, though, so she dug her long nails into his skin.

“You’re crazy! You’re crazy! What have you done to her?” George wailed, kicking and trembling.

“George, please,” Henrietta said. When she talked, Martha’s lips didn’t move. They just hung open in the terrified expression she wore the moment she died. “I want you to love me now.”

The wedding guests craned their necks to see her face, and some of those who did threw up or began throwing things at her. They shouted at her and screamed names, and George wasn’t doing anything to defend her honor. She looked around and realized everybody hated her. Everybody except for one last hope. “I’m calling the police, George!” his father told him.

George.

She looked down at him with tears in her eyes and begged, “Please, George. Love me.” She leaned down to kiss him, when he grabbed her by the neck and pushed her off of him.

“I could never love you,” he told her, pushing himself to his feet. 

Henrietta’s heart broke at his hands for the third time. Nobody was laughing, but they may as well have been with the humiliation she felt. She shrunk herself down into the fabric of Martha’s wedding gown, everybody staring at her, either in fear or in laughter.

They always told Henrietta growing up that she’d be a monster someday. It was inevitable. How could anyone who looked like her be anything but a monster? But what came first? The chicken or the egg? Henrietta decided she’d rather they fear her than laugh at her, so she’d become something for them to fear.

She brought herself to her feet and grabbed one of the unity candles. “Say it again, George,” Henrietta demanded, wild eyes illuminated by the candle’s flicker. She came closer to him, still determined to join their unity candles together. “I don’t believe you.”

George grit his teeth together. “I don’t love you,” he said. “No one has or will ever love you.”

Henrietta honestly wanted peace, but she realized George wouldn’t give her peace as long as she lived. No. As long as he lived. The little voice in her head told her what to do, and for the first time, she listened. In a fit of rage, Henrietta lifted the candlestick above his head and struck him. She raised her arm and hit him again, and when he fell, she climbed on top of him, bludgeoning him to death with the candlestick meant to signify their unity. An animalistic scream left her, like a beast being let out of its cage. And it was hungry. 

She stood, drunk, and examined her work. George looked hideous now too, just like her. But it wasn’t enough. With a gleeful laugh (and lips that did not move) Henrietta pushed over the other billion candles in the room, one by one, and let the flames latch onto whatever they could find. Curtains. Rugs. Gowns of the guests.

They went up in white-hot flames that roared like the screams of the guests trying to get out. Henrietta smiled to herself and walked back down the aisle without a care in the world, past the flames and through the family, and opened the doors. They tried to push past her to escape, but a single look at her face startled them long enough for Henrietta to lock the church doors behind her.

But don’t fret. Only a handful of people actually died. The rest of them just ended up with scars a lot like the ones everybody has hated on Henrietta forever. So much so that when Henrietta didn’t wear a facemask, she wasn’t disgusting. She was pitied by people who had heard about the tragedy at the church. A maniac on the loose took so much from her, they said in a sympathetic tone and sad eyes. She wasn’t hideous anymore; she was brave. She was a victim. She was seen for what she was. 

Henrietta disappeared into the woodwork after that. The two-faced woman became a legend, but a legend that nobody knows if it is true. Every once in a while, police find a body with a face sliced off, but if the two-faced woman was real, she blended in. She could become anyone she wanted to. A shapeshifter without mercy. And shape-shift, she did.

About the Author

Kayla Joy is an author and artist living in the Pacific Northwest with her many animals. At 20, she has already self-published two books: Hooverville, and Morbid Tales from Behind the Mirror. The second installment in the Morbid Tales series comes out this October.

Twitter: @joyful_kay

Instagram: @joyfulkayla